


Too Soft to Grip

by Anonymous



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Clothes Kink, Decepticons are surprisingly easy to please, Human AU, Humanformers, Kinda dub-con kinda non-con, Lingerie, More characters and relationships to be added when the chapters go up for them, not that anyone is Trying to please them
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-06
Updated: 2018-09-07
Packaged: 2019-07-07 15:39:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15911241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes, Decepticons want something soft too. Thankfully for them, (but perhaps not so thankfully for Swerve) Vortex and Swindle are ready to bargain...





	1. Perusal

Vortex wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve. Or at least he tried to. It was a little hard trying to get a full wiping motion when he was in a two-by-two metal hollow on the ceiling, trying not to get caught by anyone still up in the late hour. In other words, he was in a vent. A hot vent. A hot vent in an enemy base surrounded by magma. The situation wasn’t that hard to grasp.

This job wasn’t Vortex’s usual M.O., but he wasn’t kicking scrap about that. Brawl must have thought himself so clever for convincing his teammate to take his shift. It was cute how sneaky he thought he was. Very inspiring. Very… Beguiling. 

Vent duty usually went to Soundwave’s brood, but their own style was becoming too obvious. The pesky Autobot security director was somehow sensing a pattern to all the madness of the little hellions. Vortex commended him for his skill, if not the situation it brought unto him. 

However, despite the dankness and the tight security and the general risk associated with prowling around in an Autobot base, there were some pretty nice views to be had around. Or at least Vortex thought so.

He paused over another vent. Washracks. One of his favorite places to peek.

Vortex scooted forward until he was right over the vent. He spied around until he saw a couple of familiar figures. Perfect.

Vortex raised a hand and pressed a comically small button on the side of his shades. At the top right of his lens a recording count began. Ah, the perks of being in a non-consensual bond to a weapons dealer. Megatron was a rusted sack of ball-bearings to get them all into that mess but at least he chose some amazing men to frankenstein together.

Vortex focused his attention back down. There were only two occupants below him, but Vortex would argue they were rather important, so record he did. The twin terrors—not Soundwave’s—were scrubbing each other off. Sharing a single stall.

Vortex squinted through his shades. It was hard to tell the relationship between the two. They weren’t lovers, as far as he could tell, but it was obvious they had more than simple brotherly comradely holding their bond together. Not even the most skilled partnerships could replicate the dexterity and near perfect synchronization the two had. It was kind of like a horror movie, only the twins were less likely to creep on you than to attack you in a violent aerial assault they obviously didn’t know how to maneuver.

Sometimes it almost seemed as if they were the same person under different names. The same movements, the same grins—and not just because of their biology. Vortex blamed whatever weird experiments they were made to do before joining the Autobots. It made them interesting study material, really. Besides, while they were hell on the battlefield, there was no need to be cautious here. Ass naked with one getting ready to slap the other across the back with a rolled up towel, they were hardly threats to anyone other than themselves. A theory which proved true as both twins spiraled into the next stall after slipping on the wet tiles after the red haired brother attempted to run from his brother's furious swipes.

Vortex grinned wildly and covered his mouth with a hand to stifle the giggles. The twins weren’t any use at the moment. Their little nightly bath-time activities were a subject for another time. There was no new information to be gleaned until they were pushing papers or spiking drinks in the mess hall. Vortex would give a few stills of their bare asses to Swindle though. He’d appreciate the effort, if nothing else. Probably make a couple of credits off them too.

Vortex rolled his shoulders and crawled over the vent and farther into the base. Several twists and turns found him at an intersection. He was entering dangerous territory. There were three ways to go. Four if he needed to double back. There were two vents immediately next to him, one a bit grimy—rust and mold, likely from steam fumes, fumes from habsuites that had adjoining washracks. High-officer quarters, in more certain terms. The other way was fairly clean, but an old dusty smell remained, telling Vortex that way likely lead to lesser quarters, or some old record rooms that needed a thorough cleaning. The final way was right in front of him, and lead to another two-way intersection. However, at one juncture he could make out a slight gleam when he twisted his head to the side. A camera. Red Alert was certainly doing some careful watching. Good on him.

Vortex tapped his finger over the vent shortly, then shimmed his way into the vent overlooking the higher-officers’ quarters. He made sure to squirm a lot and get all that delicious slime and rust on his body suit. Brawl traded a shift with him to do general clean up and Vortex wasn’t going to make it easy on his little fool of a teammate. 

His wiggling slowed, and then came to a stop as the rustle of loose papers and taps on datapads reached him. His eyes squinted into the darkness. There was only one officer Vortex count count on to be up this late _working_.

He peeked into the lowest slot of the vent.

Prowl.

Vortex dared to lean over just the slightest bit. It was dangerous to stay too long, but if he could get a glimpse of whatever reports Prowl was furiously filing away, he could curry some great favors from the right bidders. His lenses could pick up _great_ definition. Despite being a room away from the other man he would be able to enhance and sell off whatever info he got. If he got out at all, that was. 

Vortex was not an amateur at spying. Quite the opposite. Research was his specialty after all—finding out things that people didn’t want others to know within just a couple of minutes in their presence. Vortex bit his lip as he sneaked ever so carefully over the vent. Prowl had something most of Vortex’s other targets _didn’t_ have though.

“Prowler! You still up, man?”

Vortex hurriedly shrank back. 

Speak of the blood-letter, and he shall come. 

Vortex stilled himself as the man bounced into the office.

Jazz. The scourge of Decepticon bedtime stories. 

What Vortex was to the Autobots, Jazz was to the Decepticons. Sure, around his friends and allies he was a grade A guy, stunning, charming, open… A true friend, if one didn’t know him. 

Vortex did torture just fine, but he was more of a psychologist, really. A psychologist who just so happened to undo healing and promote stress and extreme anxiety until his victims broke down under the strain. 

Jazz? Jazz was more of a physical sort. 

Just like in his social niceties, he fine-tuned touch into a method of breaking men down. Cons would come home in blubbering pieces after Jazz was done with them, half torn to shreds and weeping. Vortex knew when he was physically outmatched. He was a few screw loose, but not _stupid_.

As The Saboteur came closer, Vortex stopped breathing. His mask could only hide so much from a man rumored to be able to hear a heartbeat from a football field’s distance away.

Below, Prowl looked tiredly from his reports to the oncoming man. “Jazz, I have work to do.”

”Oh ah know!” Jazz chirped, hopping up onto the enforcer’s desk and almost upending the table before Prowl grabbed the other end of it. “Ah’m just here ta keep ya company until you’re done!”

With that, Jazz crossed his hands behind his head, and laid down right across all of Prowl’s paperwork, blocking them from view. Fuck.

Prowl scowled down at him, but Jazz simply grinned back at him. Vortex watched as Prowl’s resolve crumbled. The man visibly bit back a sigh and got up from his desk. Jazz hopped up with him, scooping all the unfinished datapads—and Vortex’s bribes—into his satchel before directing the newly irate second-in-command to his own door. Prowl turned away, but a slight inclanation of his head suggested he was rolling his eyes at the antics of his beau.

At the door, Jazz swept low into a bow as he keyed open the enteryway, “After you, Prowler.” He winked.

Prowl failed to bite back the next sigh, more fond than exasperated, and exited. Thankfully distracted, Jazz turned off the lights and shut the door before following Prowl back down the hall, letting Vortex fall into near darkness.

He refused to move until the footfalls couldn’t be heard anymore. Jazz’s presence back on the ship was his cue to start packing up.

Vortex twisted and jiggled until he was back in the first intersection. He planted his top half into the vent with the dusty smell so he could finagle his lower half into a position to go back into the other vent face-first, but paused. There was a noise up ahead. A voice.

Vortex propped his jaw up with his fist and considered his options.

Go back to base with a couple of blurry stills of information that might not even be useful… Or stay a little longer and see if that voice was saying anything useful.

Vortex scratched at his chin. 

Jazz and Prowl had probably reached their habsuite and were lovingly murmuring all sorts of stupid Autobot mush to each other while trying to convince the other to go to sleep. The usual. Vortex wasn’t in immediate danger, and from a couple of careful glances, he couldn’t detect any cameras up ahead… Only one way to go, then.

With a small push, he was fully into the next vent. Several low-ranking officers quarters passed him, most dark, one or two with a light on for anyone who couldn’t sleep in the dark. Softies. However, as Vortex got closer and he didn’t need to strain to hear, he was pleasantly surprised to pick up something _very_ nice.

His luck had turned.

_”Oh, God...”_


	2. Tight Fit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Swerve doesn't mind battlesuits, really, he doesn't, but he likes lingerie better...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> smut in this chapter (kinda) yehaw

_”Oh, God...”_

Vortex shivered. The words were light, breathy, and deliciously desperate. He wasn’t yet over the grate, but he could already imagine the scene inside.

A man. One arm under his head, the other rubbing up and down the length of his member. Maybe he’d been at it a while. Maybe he’d already came several times, and was wrapping it up—over-sensitized but still hungry for more. The only sure way to relax after a long day of pointless battling. Likely of average height and average looks and average muscle bulk—just enough to be toned, but not enough to intimidate. Generic Autobot canon fodder. Not that canon fodder wasn’t sexy in its own little way.

_”Ah—...”_

Vortex shivered. Canon fodder with a knack for giving his cock a thorough workout before bedtime. He pressed his face to the bottom of the vent. Blurred report stills wouldn’t get him too far, but his team might enjoy a porno after they were all inevitably beat for not acquiring any coherent intel.

Quietly, he moved his way up to the grate. The room inside was dimly lit. Silently, he peered in.

… _Oh_.

* * *

Swerve hiccuped gently.

He fingered the waistline fabric of his panties, the other hand wandered up slow to rest against the matching bra. It didn’t really fit him. It dug into his skin where metal wires coaxed it into shape—it was too tight around the bottom of his chest yet the straps and cups bunched loosely at the top. The panties weren’t that much different. They were just a bit smaller than his hip size, and some of the lace at the top was straining against his bulk. They were both pretty though.

One of Swerve’s hands felt lower, tracing the outline of his cock and staring in fascination at the mirror in front of him, giving him the full view. Mirrors were probably more Mirage or Sunstreaker’s style, but there was no denying how nice he felt in them. He just wanted to see, is all. Really.

He let out a shaky sigh, letting his other hand dip back down under the wire of the bra. He watched himself slowly slip more of his hand under the metal frame until his fingers bumped into a nipple. He bit his lip. His index and middle fingers came together slowly, closing over it and rolling it gently between the two. His other hand tightened over the soft fabric covering his member.

”Oh, that’s it,” Swerve wheezed to himself, the rolls of his stomach tensing and contracting as he hand came back up to slip into the panties.

His cock wasn’t that heavy in his hand. Even proportionally it was a bit small. He didn’t have any impressive piercings—like one of the other minis would—or any tattoos—like a Wrecker would—just bare skin and a boring pink head. In Swerve’s own words, it kind of looked how he generally felt. A little lopsided, short, and overall forgettable. Thankfully though, there was no one in the room he needed to prove anything to, and he could take as much time as he wanted to explore his plain little cock.

Swerve languidly tightened his fist over his member. It was half heard already—after eating his fill of rations and smuggled sweets and putting on his fun-time wear, he was ready to play. There was a little bead of precum already dribbling at the head of his cock. He pressed it onto the front of his panties and stared at the mirror, watching as the front of the material moistened. Swerve lazily swirled the head over the soft fabric and his eyes went half-lidded. 

Swerve’s other hand continued rolling and pinching his nipple, at one point he’d slipped the wire frame right over his chest and his hand switched between both nips. Experimentally, he flicked one and tried to stifle a giggle. It was more ticklish than sexy, but still nice. He tried tugging the wire back down over the other nipple, but it kept getting caught on his chest hair, and he let it be.

Swerve’s other hand had meanwhile went back to playing with the head of his cock. His thumb slid over the slit, then around into the foreskin, and back over the slit. Occasionally his fist would tighten and slide down, then back up again. His member grew slowly harder and harder, its outline more obvious against the front of his silky panties.

He blinked tiredly. He was having a great time, but his first shift wasn’t going to wait on him. With one last shaky exhale, he turned both hands onto his cock, squeezing and cupping against the fabric. He stroked faster, and just a slight bit harder. His panting bounced around the room as the heat grew. Swerve’s thumb pressed insistently on the slit of his cock until he gasped, hunching over and cumming right into the light fabric.

Swerve’s hands held tight for a few moments longer, then released. He stretched out across his bed and sighed contently. One hand came out from the panties and slipped it off. The other was used to attempt a similar move for the bra, but it was substantially harder to do one-handed. 

Swerve grunted as he sat up, and again as he bent over in half with both hands scrabbling at the back of the bra. For a couple of seconds he couldn’t find the back strap. Swerve let out a noise of victory as he found the clasp, but he bit his lip lightly as he fumbled with it. “Come on,” he pleaded with the bra strap. No reply. He let out another stilted exhale as both hands came back to the front. His arms were tired. Swerve quietly contemplated his life choices while tapping at his leg. Huh. When did that bruise get there? Swerve shook his head. Not the time. Hesitatingly, his hands gripped the under side of the wire and pulled up. It was kind of a stupid move considering the wire was already at the top of his chest, and for it to move higher would require it go over his arms, but since his arms were in use trying to move it up, nothing happened. Well, something _did_ happen. He got a nice red indent line across the top of his chest and the side of his armpits and probably his back. Why had he decided to put the bra on again? Because it was pretty. Right.

After a couple more minutes of wriggling and cursing, Swerve was finally out of the bra. The wire frame was twisted up irreparably and he’d have to buy a new one for a _lot_ of money if he wanted another one, but it was off.

Swerve hopped up off his bed and stretched. He noticed his movements in the mirror and he paused. He didn’t usually look at himself while completely naked. People didn’t usually do that. Probably. He turned to the side. Still fat. He turned to his other side, grabbed a big chunk of his belly and wriggled it around. He let it drop. He turned a quarter and looked over his shoulder. He had back dimples. That counted as cute, right? He was pretty cute. Swerve smiled at his reflection, winked and struck a pose. It was then that his face went bright red and he hurried over to his cabinet side table and grabbed his suit and some underwear from one of the drawers.

Swerve put on his underwear, then a thin tank top, and glanced back at the bed. The wet panties and the ruined bra were still there. He’d probably have to get new ones anyways. Neither items fit him. The novelty was great, but he wanted something more comfortable, something he could really relax in. 

The thought made him blush again, this time in guilt. There were dozens of other officers more useful and skilled than him still fighting in the late hour. There were literally hundreds of soldiers probably going hungry, and another hundred thousand already dead. What did his selfish panty-raiding thoughts really matter in the scheme of everything? Nothing. That was what it was worth. Absolutely nothing.

Swerve grabbed the bra and panties from off the bed, but he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. He sighed heavily and set them both into another drawer. He turned back to the bodysuit, still on the floor, and stooped to pick it up. The material was rough in his hands. It needed to be. They were lucky to have armor so thin but durable these days. The coarse texture just meant the suit would provide traction. Nothing bad about that. Or at least that’s what Swerve tried to tell himself as he haltingly wriggled into it. 

He pulled the suit tight up his body. He was… Still a lot heftier than other guys his size, so this too was small on him. He sucked his gut in as much as possible to zip it up. After the second try the zipper skipped up his rolls and glided easy up to his chest, then stopped again. Damn. How did one pull in their chest? Swerve grumbled as he let out as much air as possible from his lungs and hunched over. It mostly worked but his tank top then started to get caught in the zipper, causing Swerve to desire air, and making the zipper skip back down to the area between his belly and his chest. 

After another couple of tries, Swerve got the zipper up to his neck. It was an uncomfortable fit, but it was better to sleep with it on and be uncomfortable than to sleep in relative comfort and then die if your base was raided and attacked by a gaggle of Cons.

Swerve breathed heavily as he swung himself back up onto his bed. The suit made it hard to breathe, par for the course. He shifted and shimmied his way to the middle, the stopped to rest and catch his breath. If there was a raid tomorrow, he’d probably die.

Swerve turned onto his side and tugged the blankets off of himself, first by lifting his hips, then his top half, then his hips again until all the blanket was out. He threw it back over himself and tucked one arm under his pillow. He stared at the wall. 

“… Lights: off,” he called to Teletraan. The room's lights obediently turned off. He stared quietly into the darkness for a while longer, then closed his eyes and resigned himself to an uneasy rest. Tomorrow was another day.


End file.
